


but on good days

by achilleees



Series: rentboy jack and his nhl star boyfriend [3]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Parent-Child Relationship, Rentboys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 23:08:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10581393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achilleees/pseuds/achilleees
Summary: “Are you mad at me?” Kent says.Jack meets his eyes in the mirror, gaze stormy.“I’m just trying to get along with your parents,” says Kent. “I thought that’s why you brought me here.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> i've gotten a lot of requests for kent meeting rentboy jack's parents, and i don't know if anyone is still interested, but i was randomly struck with inspiration so i decided to finally get it down in words.
> 
> this is a little about jack and kent's relationship in the rentboy verse and a LOT about jack's relationship with his parents. obvi it doesn't fit canon exactly (like... rentboy jack, so.) but the tangled feelings of love and resentment are PRETTY CLOSE to how i view jack in the canon. point being, even if you're not into the rentboy jack verse, you might connect with this one.
> 
> i don't speak french so it's quite possible google translate lied to me here. feel free to correct me.

Kent’s eyeing himself grimly in the mirror when a sudden bang on the hotel room door startles him. “Yo, dinner!” calls someone from outside. “Coming?”

“Nah, you go,” he says. “I’ve got plans.”

“Cappy-kins isn’t coming to dinner?” he hears, fainter, from someone else down the hall. “Cappy-kins doesn’t love us?”

“Cappy-kins!” says a third voice. “We can change!”

They’re his team and he loves them, but they’re the _worst_.

Kent opens the door so they can really appreciate the full effect of his eye-roll.

“Ooh, _plans_ ,” says Curry, looking him up and down and smirking. “I didn’t realize the boy was accompanying this roadie.”

“Cap, believe me, I get that you want to keep him away from us and I sympathize, but at the point that you’re having him fly out in parallel with our road trips and _still_ refusing to introduce us, it’s starting to feel personal,” says Millsy.

“Ugh,” says Kent, rolling his eyes again. “Okay, A, how did you know?” He looks down at himself. The shawl-neck sweater and dark blue jeans are nice, but they don’t scream _trying too hard,_ do they?

“I didn’t even know you had pants that weren’t sweatpants until we found out about the boy,” Curry says.

“You’re kind of a hobo,” says Anders. He pats Kent’s hair. “A very cute hobo, but. A hobo.”

“Except when you’re trying to impress the boy,” finishes Millsy. “It is not a subtle trend.”

Kent pouts. “And B,” he says loudly, “he was in town anyway and I’m just meeting up with him. I did not fly him out here in parallel.”

“Business trip?” Curry asks.

“No, he, uh,” Kent says, and his throat starts to tighten up, the way it has been this whole trip. “He’s visiting his parents.”

The guys are silent. “You’re meeting the parents?” says Millsy.

Kent squeezes his eyes shut and nods, preparing himself for the torrents of mockery.

A hand claps on his shoulder and startles his eyes open; he finds Anders looking at him with uncharacteristic solemnity. “Godspeed, my brother,” he says.

“Thanks,” Kent says weakly.

 

 

Jack assured him the doorman to the gated community would have his name on the list, and he does, so Kent makes it up to the door of Bob and Alicia’s place with no trouble. He tips the taxi driver well and then stands at the front door, gathering his composure.

He gets in one full knock before the door is being flung open and he’s dragged inside.

“Hey,” says Jack, and twines his fingers in Kent’s hair, tipping his face up to kiss him hard.

Kent gives a muffled sound of surprise and then melts into it, panting and flushed by the time Jack releases him.

“Sorry,” says Jack. “I just…” He grimaces.

“It’s cool,” Kent says dazedly, because if that’s how Jack chooses to deal with his stress, he has no problem with it. Then he feels his hair, the way the product he put in is crinkling. “Except you ruined my hair.”

Jack looks at him pityingly. “Oh, buddy.”

“Shush,” says Kent. “So are we gonna keep making out in the foyer, or…?”

Jack takes a deep breath. He takes Kent by the hand and leads him into the kitchen, where Bad fucking Bob stands at the island dressing a salad.

What is Kent’s life.

“Oh!” says Bad fucking Bob, lighting up with a huge smile. “Kent! You know, I’ve been wanting to meet you for a long time.” He dries his hands on a dish towel and then comes over, shaking Kent’s hand firmly.

Kent assumes the choir of angels he hears is only inside his head. “Hi,” he says, still dazed, which he blames in equal parts on Jack’s kisses and Bad fucking Bob Zimmermann saying he’d _been wanting to meet him_ , _Jesus Christ_.

Jack gives him a pleading look, and right, this isn’t just Bad fucking Bob Zimmermann, this is Kent’s boyfriend’s father, and that matters more.

“It’s great to meet you too,” he says, smiling back. “Your house is amazing.”

“Oh, that’s all Alicia,” says Bob. He raises his voice. “Al, Kent’s here!”

Hearing footsteps, Kent barely has time to turn around before he finds himself enveloped in a perfumey, rib-cracking hug, which he barely has time to return before his cheeks are being roundly kissed.

“It’s so nice to meet you, Kent,” Alicia says warmly. “Can I get you a drink? Wine? Beer?”

“Molson,” Jack says, while Kent recovers.

“If you have Molson, that would be great,” Kent says. “Although I’m not Canadian, so I dunno if you’re allowed to share.”

“What’s that?” Alicia says, puzzled, though Bob laughs and goes to the fridge.

“In Sochi, the Canadians had a beer fridge that you could only open with a Canadian passport,” Kent explains. “The Canadians on the Aces made a point to seek me out while they drank them.”

“Silver lining to the trade, then?” Bob says.

“Oh, but Kent doesn’t want to talk about that,” Alicia says, before Kent can answer. She smiles brightly - though if it’s not in Kent’s imagination, it seems a little forced.

Jack definitely thinks so, with the way his shoulders draw up.

“So Kent, you’re American, then? Where are you from?” Alicia says.

“Rochester,” Kent says slowly, trying to interpret the subtext so he knows what subjects to avoid. Hockey, he realizes. Yikes, that might be difficult. “Most of my family is in the Midwest, though - my mom’s the only one among her siblings that moved out of Minnesota. Jack says you’re from Wisconsin?”

“Yes,” Alicia says after a beat, looking surprised and pleased. “Right outside of Green Bay.”

“Yeah, he mentioned you’re a Packers fan,” Kent says. “I’m, like, mad in love with Aaron Rodgers, but don’t tell my family, they’d never forgive me.”

Alicia laughs. “I can’t blame you,” she says, and Bob pretends to grumble next to her. “Jack didn’t tell me you’re a football fan.” She smiles at Jack, gently admonishing.

“Mostly Bills, a little Vikings,” Kent says. “It’s a deeply sad statement on my life that when you talk about soul-shattering missed field goals, I have to ask _which one_.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” she says. “Have you managed to convert my son at all? Somehow I never seemed to have any luck with that.”

Jack snorts. “The Bills and Vikings make pretty shitty gateway drugs,” he says.

“Rude!” says Kent. “But… true.”

Alicia laughs again. “I’ve been dying to know, though, how did you two meet?” She looks back and forth between them.

Kent feels Jack tense at his side, but Kent’s always been a good liar, easy and smooth, because he knows the first rule - _don’t_ lie, when you can help it. “I ran into him outside a bar and, like, instantly went stupid over him,” Kent says. “Cut to months of me pursuing him until I finally managed to convince him I was worth his time.”

“Oh, how sweet,” Alicia says, and Kent hopes she can’t see the way Jack’s hands are clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides.

 

 

Kent knew it was going to be difficult to navigate the treacherous waters of meeting Jack’s parents for the first time, but he hadn’t realized quite how much. He can’t map out the dynamics well enough to keep from misstepping, especially when Jack seems entirely disinclined to help.

Alicia’s taking a call in another room, so Kent chats with Bob in the living room, Jack sitting ramrod-straight on the couch next to him. It doesn’t take long for the conversation to turn.

“What are you thinking about PyeongChang?” Bob asks.

Kent grimaces. “They’re never going to let us go,” he says. “Not after JT got injured in Sochi. I know Leonsis already said he would let his players take off the month, though, so I guess I just gotta hope Aquilini leans the same way. I need my fucking redemption after Sochi.”

It’s been long enough that he’s not _really_ bitter, but Bob is thoughtful enough not to press.

“There’s nothing like the Olympics,” Bob says. “The Cup is - I mean, the Cup is the Cup, but there’s nothing like playing for your country.”

“I know it,” Kent says. “Worlds isn’t the same.” He shrugs. “I get the NHL’s side, though. They’ve got nothing to gain by letting their product go break their knees in a foreign country for literally zero profit.”

“I suppose,” Bob muses. “I wonder if there’s anything we former players could do to campaign, though.”

Kent laughs. “Tell you the truth, I’m having trouble feeling much pity for you. Croz’s golden goal in Vancouver wasn’t enough?”

Bob chuckles. “He’s a remarkable boy,” he says.

“What are we talking about?” Alicia says, coming into the room.

There’s a beat of guilty silence.

“Well, it doesn’t matter, dinner’s ready. Jack, why don’t you take Kent to wash up?” Alicia says, her tone brittle.

There’s something Terminator-y about the way Jack strides from the room, so fast Kent has to jog to keep up.

In the bathroom, Jack starts the tap running, but just braces his hand on the marble counter and drops his head, shoulders hitched up tight.

“Are you mad at me?” Kent says.

Jack meets his eyes in the mirror, gaze stormy.

“I’m just trying to get along with your parents,” says Kent. “I thought that’s why you brought me here.”

“It is,” Jack says, quiet and toneless.

“I don’t know what I can -”

“He would have loved to have you as a son,” Jack says, cutting him off.

Kent’s breath catches in his throat, clogging there.

“If you don’t get it…” Jack shakes his head.

“Of course I get it,” Kent says. “But it’s not fair to blame me for that.” As much as he sympathizes with Jack, aches for him, there’s a spark of resentment deep down. “You invited me here. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes I did,” Jack says. “Especially since…”

“Yeah,” Kent says. “But that’s your idea too, not mine. I understand why you’re upset. I just… Please don’t take it out on me.” He can see in the mirror that his eyes are shiny-wet. He’s going to have to get that under control before he goes back outside.

He can see the way Jack’s chewing on the inside of his cheek, and he remembers the time a drunken Jack confided to him that guilt always tastes bloody. Fuck, what the hell is Kent doing here? This isn’t helping.

“I can leave,” he says.

“No!” Jack says, startled. “Stay.”

“Are you sure?”

Jack sighs. “Trust me, it wouldn’t be any better without you here. Anyway, now that Maman’s back, we won’t be allowed to talk hockey anymore, and isn’t that so much better.” His tone is acidic; Jack doesn’t do sarcasm often, and it shows. “Please stay.”

“If you’re sure,” Kent says.

Jack nods.

 

 

Back outside, Kent can see from Bob’s expression that he’s been suitably chastised by Alicia, and he wonders which is harder for Jack to deal with - the way Alicia has placed a gag order on the subject, or the fact that it’s still clearly all Bob knows how to talk about.

Jesus, what the hell happened here?

“It looks delicious,” Kent says, taking the seat that Jack gestures him toward.

“Bob took up cooking as a hobby after he retired,” Alicia says. “He needed something to fill the time.”

Bob snorts. “I seem to remember a bit of encouragement from the peanut gallery on that regard,” he says. “I recall the phrase _hovering around my house like some kind of aimless ghost_ being used.”

“I’m quite sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alicia says innocently. “Do you cook, Kent?”

“Uh,” Kent says.

Jack snorts.

“I’m a pro at heating up pre-cooked meals,” Kent says, flashing two thumbs up. “But hey, Jack takes care of me just fine.”

“Really?” Alicia says, openly surprised. She looks at Jack. “How nice.”

Jack stabs at his potatoes with his fork.

“Uh, yeah,” Kent says, not entirely sure what he’s done wrong this time. “Protein. Whole grains. Lots of stir fries. So, um, he mentioned you’re starting up a new charity for refugee athletes?”

Again, Alicia has that queer expression when she looks at Jack, somewhere between confused and pleased.

“Yes,” says Bob. “It’s the absolute least we could do, with the situation as it stands.” He shakes his head.

“No, I totally get that,” Kent says. “If there’s anything I can do - like, public donations or sponsorship, I’d love to get involved.”

Bob straightens up. “I would love that,” he says. “It would be fantastic to have more current players engaging in the conversation.” He sighs.

For some reason, _this_ is the last straw for Jack, who hisses at Kent’s side. “Je n'ai pas choisi de quitter!” he snaps at Bob. “Comment pouvez-vous m'en vouloir?”

“Jack!” Alicia says.

“I need some air,” Jack says, shoving back from the table. He jams his feet into his unlaced boots and stalks outside.

Alicia puts her head in her hands.

Kent sits there, both profoundly uncomfortable and profoundly confused.

 

 

Kent shuts the sliding door behind him and stands on the patio for a long moment, hands braced on the railing, watching Jack skate slow circles on the ice below.

A backyard rink takes a lot of upkeep, Kent knows. He doesn’t imagine Bob is doing it for his own benefit anymore.

It strikes him that he’s never seen Jack skate before, but Jack is so obviously comfortable on the ice that the sight _feels_ familiar. He leans into the corners like an NHL pro, crossing over his feet to gain momentum on the turn. Every flex of his muscles is deliberated; there isn’t a motion wasted.

Snow crunches under Kent’s shoes as he makes his way down the skinny path to the rink, broken only by one pair of footprints. He pauses at the side, hands in his pockets, breath steaming before him.

“There’s spares in the pool house,” says Jack, not looking at him.

Kent laces up with practiced ease, and he skates lazy figure-eights in the middle of the ice, not wanting to interfere with Jack’s loop of the perimeter.

It doesn’t take too long for Jack to sigh and skate over, stopping in front of Kent. “You’re not wearing enough,” he scolds, pulling Kent’s hands from his pockets and rubbing them both to warm them. “Didn’t you pack a warmer coat?”

“Didn’t know I was going to be braving the elements,” Kent said. “Anyway, I’m wearing more’n you are, Henley-boy.”

“I run hot,” Jack says. “And your circulation is worse.” He lifts Kent’s hands to his face and breathes hotly on them.

“I’m fine,” says Kent, but is more than willing to let Jack dote on him. He loves doting Jack.

Jack, finally satisfied, weaves their fingers together and looks Kent in the eye. “You’re probably curious,” he says.

“Um,” Kent says. The sheer magnitude of that understatement blows his mind a little. “...Yes.” But he forces himself to add, albeit reluctantly, “But you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

Jack smiles wryly. “At this point, I think I do,” he says. “It wouldn’t be fair to bring you here and then…” He tries to pull his hand away, probably to do that vague wave he does whenever he’s indicating something from his past he doesn’t want to delve into, but Kent grips his fingers and doesn’t let go. “You deserve to know.”

Kent shrugs. “You don’t have to tell me,” he says again.

Jack shakes his head. “When I was young,” he starts to say, then cuts himself off. “When did the scouts start noticing you? Projecting future NHL success, I mean?”

Kent thinks. “Peewee?” he says. “Or maybe Bantam.” Oddly, it’s an image of his skates tangled in the backseat with Maggie’s ballet slippers that comes to mind. “Bantam, I think.”

“They were talking about me from the first time I laced up,” Jack said. “Literally. I found an old article.”

Kent whistles lowly.

“And I was good enough,” Jack says, with neither pride nor shame, “I know I was. I would have gone first.”

“I believe you,” says Kent. He hesitates. “When did you stop playing?”

Jack doesn’t answer for a long moment, his gaze turning inward. His eyes are still trained on Kent’s face, but Kent can tell he’s not really seeing anything. “In Bantam, I started having trouble breathing before my games,” he said instead of answering directly. “They thought it was asthma, but then they took me to a child psychologist.”

Kent squeezes his fingers.

“I remember the car ride home,” says Jack slowly. “Papa kept changing the radio station.” He pauses. “When we got home, Maman took him upstairs and they talked for a long time. I don’t really know what they said. I do remember hearing her shout _You will not ruin my child_. Not ours. My.”

Kent glances up to the house, glowing and warm against the dark winter sky, light spilling out onto the snow.

“He told me years later that she threatened to leave him.” Jack smiles humorlessly. “She came downstairs and told me, just like that, that I wasn’t playing hockey anymore. I was so angry. I didn’t speak to her for months.”

“Holy shit,” murmurs Kent, nearly soundlessly.

“I still got anxiety about other things, and they had to put me on meds when I was 16, but it was never as bad,” Jack says, tone matter of fact, like he was wrapping up the story. “Never had another panic attack, at least. I moved out when I was 18. They had to beg me to let them pay for my college education.”

“Samwell?” Kent says, because he hadn’t missed Jack’s diploma mounted on the mantelpiece over Bob and Alicia’s wood stove.

“Yeah,” Jack says, and abruptly sags, weary. “Can I tell you the rest another time? Sorry, I just…”

“Holy shit,” Kent says again. “Yes, oh my god.” As much as he wants to know how Jack had gotten from Samwell to Vegas, became a hooker with a BA in history, he’s never going to push.

“Thanks,” Jack says, and wraps Kent in his arms, burying his face in Kent’s hair. “It’s not like I never see them. I come home for Christmas every year. We talk on the phone. But it’s hard. For all of us.”

“I bet,” Kent says. He bites his lip, thinking of the look on Alicia’s face when Jack had stormed out. “Don’t take this the wrong way, because it wasn’t fair to make the choice for you, but… Do you ever think, like, in some way… I mean -”

“I’ve always known she was right,” Jack says, clear and certain.

“Oh,” Kent says.

“It didn’t make it any easier,” Jack says.

“Duh,” Kent says. “Dude, you’re a better man than I am. If my mom had taken hockey away from me when I was young, let’s just say the chance of me _ever_ bringing my goddamn NHL captain boyfriend home to meet her is… slim.”

“She was trying to protect me,” Jack says haltingly.

“Doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to resent her for it,” says Kent. “That’s okay.”

Jack gives a quiet laugh that sounds like it’s being torn out of him. “Trust me, I’ve been resenting her.”

“But have you told yourself that was okay?” Kent says.

Jack averts his gaze.

“It’s okay,” Kent says softly.

Jack presses his lips to the top of Kent’s head and breathes.

 

 

When Kent lets himself back into the house, he can tell from the way Bob and Alicia are sitting that they’ve been fighting. He takes a deep breath. “Jack’s just gonna skate a few more laps, then he’ll be back.”

Bob nods. Alicia doesn’t do anything.

“Jack made me crepes on my birthday,” he says, and they both look up at him, startled. “He says it’s because Bob made them for special occasions. I somehow managed to convince him that Sundays are a special occasion, so now it’s a weekly tradition. He eats them with Nutella and maple syrup.”

Bob smiles.

Kent wets his finger with ice water and traces it silently around the rim of his cup. “When I got sick, he played me Carla Bruni lullabyes on my computer, and said _it’s not the same, but_. I don’t really know what he meant, but I think you might?”

Alicia nods.

“We have a giant framed picture of your summer lakehouse up in our living room,” he says. “Well, It’s not really of the lakehouse, I guess. It’s these empty canoes tipped on their side, and the grass beneath them is all dusty and gold, and you can see the edge of the back porch where the swing is hanging lopsided. I know he could sell it in one of his shows if he wanted to, but.” He shrugs. “I guess he doesn’t want to.”

Alicia clears her throat; it sounds wet.

Bob’s eyes are bright.

“Jack isn’t just in Montreal to see you,” Kent says. “He’s house-hunting.”

They both go very still.

“He says that he wants to spend more time here, so we’re renting a house in the city for the off-season,” Kent says. “He was going to keep it a surprise, but he just changed his mind and asked me to tell you.” He smiles. “I know things aren’t easy, but… he _is_ trying.”

Alicia gives a hitched sob.

Bob wipes at his eyes.

Finally, Alicia composes herself enough to speak. “We don’t talk to our son much,” she says, voice thick. “I don’t even know what he’s been doing with his life since Samwell. If I ask, he shuts down, so I’ve stopped asking. I didn’t know he could cook until you mentioned it.”

Kent nods.

“But he tells us about you, Kent,” she says. “When he talks to us on the phone now, you’re what he talks about. For quite some time now.”

Kent smiles.

“You have no idea how nice it is to meet you,” she murmurs, reaching over and squeezing his hand. “And you have no idea how happy I am that my son did.”

“Thank you,” Kent says.

“No,” she says softly. “Thank _you_.”


End file.
